Whiskey Won't Guard Your Secrets
by HalfshellVenus1
Summary: Sam/Dean Season 5 Slash: Sam fought his feelings for years, until a larger battle slowly wore him down.


Title: **Whiskey Won't Guard Your Secrets**

Author: HalfshellVenus

Characters: Sam/Dean (**Slash**)

Rating: M

Summary (**Season 5**): Sam fought his feelings for years, until a larger battle slowly wore him down.

Author's Notes: For my **spn_25** table, this is "Slip."

x-x-x-x-x

More and more often, there were days when Sam woke up _tired_.

He'd felt like that after Jess died, but that had to do with the weight of remembering what he'd lost. This was different: now each day offered the refrain of _You will_ and _It's your destiny_ and _Soon._

His faith in himself was slipping, after a lifetime of knowing so strongly who he was that he'd even chosen that truth over his family. He couldn't imagine a version of himself who would become Lucifer's vessel, but by now he hardly recognized the Sam he used to be, either.

Dean was struggling too, worn down by his time in Hell and by the bleak future that heralded his return. Saddled with stopping the Apocalypse, he'd been set up for failure from the start. He'd been lied to, manipulated, and full-out conned through a plan to turn him into an Archangel's pawn with a destiny that meant killing his brother.

Dean would probably kill _himself_ before he'd let that happen, but Sam wasn't sure Dean still knew that. The hollow look in Dean's eyes and the set of his shoulders was all the more reason to doubt it.

They drank more now than they used to. Sometimes they went to bars, when Dean got edgy and needed to be out in a crowd. Other times they sat in the car or stayed at the motel, passing a bottle of whiskey back and forth trying to blot out the miserable truth that daylight and the other side of the door would eventually bring.

For now, the two of them were holding ground against an Archangel and the Devil, but it was exhausting. A moment of weakness could change everything, and living on the edge of that possibility got harder every day.

"Jack Daniels?" Dean asked one night as they pulled into Williamsburg, where a shape-shifter was rumored to be active. Some days they handled ordinary cases, and others were focused on pre-apocalyptic outbreaks. Dean's mood wavered back and forth between confronting the big picture and retreating into the safety of familiar territory. Sam didn't blame him for that, or for the times he slept the day away and opted out of the whole thing. The world seemed headed toward a showdown neither of them wanted. No point in hurrying to get there.

Tonight, Dean clearly wanted to kick back and forget, and Sam was happy to join him. "Sure," he answered. Dean stopped at a liquor store and got the goods, and soon after they found a motel.

The room had a sofa and cable TV, and Dean dumped his duffel bag on one of the beds and took the whiskey over to the sofa and settled in. Sam joined him, helping himself to a couple of drinks from the bottle while Dean fiddled with the remote. The whiskey went down smooth and smoky, guaranteed relaxation after a full day in the car.

"That," Sam said, gesturing toward the television. A Star Trek re-run with blondes and boobs was the perfect kind of distraction.

They drank and watched TV, growing loose and comfortable as time went on. Sam elbowed Dean and pointed at a hot-tub commercial, and Dean nodded. "Someday, Sammy," he slurred, patting Sam's leg. "Someday."

Sam knew he got handsy when he was drunk, because Dean complained about it, but Dean was just as bad. Halfway through the bottle, Dean's head was leaning against Sam's shoulder while his hand rubbed up and down Sam's leg as if the sensation was mesmerizing.

Hell, Sam sure thought so—he was tingling head to toe, and parts of him were taking far more notice than they should have, considering that Dean was his brother. So why didn't he say something?

Because he didn't want to, he decided. Maybe he never had. Instead, he spread his legs a little farther and put his arm around Dean. When Dean tipped his head back and looked at him blearily, Sam got caught up in the sinful curves of Dean's lips. A lifetime of dirty thoughts surged through his head, and he leaned down and kissed Dean with all the drunken intensity Dean's touch had awakened.

"Mmmph," Dean said softly—not a protest, and Sam wasn't in any kind of mood to stop. One way or another, he'd spent the better part of the last year trying to deny the things he wanted, and he was fucking tired of it. He wanted _this_—the closeness, the wrongness of it all. All he had left in the world was right here next to him. He was sick of fighting angels and demons and his own self-loathing to keep it from being taken away.

Under him, Dean opened to his kiss, one hand sliding up through Sam's hair and pulling him closer while the other moved clumsily along Sam's leg and grabbed his hip. Damn but Dean was a good kisser, even when he was drunk. Sam had suspected—all those years of watching Dean with different girls and women, sometimes envying them and not Dean, wanting all that attention for himself… he'd always imagined it would be every bit as good as this.

"Sam, maybe we—" Dean began, but Sam cut him off.

"Do you care? I mean at this point, with what it's come to—does anyone else's opinion even matter anymore?"

"No," Dean admitted.

"Good."

Sam bent down and lost himself in Dean's mouth again, until they were stretched out on the sofa and Sam was riding the slant of Dean's hip. With his thigh between Dean's legs, Sam moved in rolling thrusts that made both of them moan and gasp. Slipping his hand under Dean's shirt, Sam stroked the naked skin beneath while sucking and tonguing Dean's lower lip as the two of them ground into each other. Dean shuddered and came with his hand down the back of Sam's pants, and Sam followed, drunk enough that the room spun a little and he tasted blood from biting Dean too hard.

Afterward, he shifted over to lie next to Dean. He brushed his fingers along Dean's neck and traced the swollen lip with his tongue so softly that he knew it couldn't possibly hurt.

Dean sighed under Sam's touch, stroking the bare skin of Sam's back where his shirt had left it exposed. "So now what?" he asked softly.

Sam kept soothing Dean, his thumb sweeping slowly across Dean's cheek. "Shower, maybe, after we get out of these pants."

Dean grinned for a second, so quickly Sam almost missed it. "No, I mean, are you sorry we did this?"

"Hell no." Sam pulled back far enough to really look at Dean. "You matter more to me than any of this—" he gestured vaguely in frustration over everything that had happened the last few years, including the shit-storm waiting for them right now. "We've got nothing but each other, maybe right up to the end. So why hold back? What's the fucking point? I've probably wanted this longer than I can remember. Why not finally do something about it?"

Dean's hand stopped moving along Sam's back. His eyes searched Sam's for the longest time before he simply said, "Okay."

"Really? You're not going to change your mind about this in the morning?"

Dean laughed. "I've spent the last two years second-guessing every decision I've made, and look where it's gotten me. So if you can admit you want this, then I can admit it too."

"That works for me." Sam leaned down and kissed Dean again, more gently than before. He'd planned on keeping his feelings a secret forever, only to finally slip up now—and why tonight, when he'd gotten drunk with Dean so many times over the years without giving himself away? But now that it had happened, he felt an odd kind of contentment. He had Dean, at least for the moment, and the pressure of hiding his emotions was gone.

He was still in that comfortable haze when someone honked a horn outside, jolting him back to reality. It had been so nice to let go—even just for awhile—of all the things they drank to forget. But with this new thing between him and Dean, things were better now. Sam felt closer to Dean than he had in years, and more determined than ever to fight the trap closing around them.

"Promise you won't give in," he found himself saying.

"What?"

"To the angels and the whole Sword of Michael thing. Promise me you won't do it."

Dean looked at him seriously, frowning a little. "I was never going to. And you're not giving up either."

"No matter what," Sam agreed.

"Exactly." Dean gripped Sam's shoulder, suddenly intense. "No matter what they tell you, or what they threaten to do to either of us. As long as we stand firm, they'll have to find some other way to work out their little feud."

After the grim uncertainty of the last few months, Sam realized those were the words he'd been waiting for. He and Dean had to be equally committed to choosing their own fate, or neither of them would have a chance.

He gathered Dean in close and tight, finally hopeful again.

"Ow!" Dean squirmed, and Sam loosened his hold. Slightly.

Together, the two of them could survive nearly anything.

_-------- fin --------_


End file.
